After some time, Del turns to Roland. "How do you know that the scorpion pale elf is not in cahoots with lady pale elf, and that vial she gave you is what we need? That thing was evil incarnate."
Overhearing, Sabal interjects, "It would be very unlikely, I think, that a priestess possessed of such obvious pride would align herself with such an abomination. More likely that the priestess got the poison from another source, I think."
Roland, having taken some deep breaths and managed to calm down, nods towards Sabal. "There you go. Though I would suggest in the future that if you have such concerns in the future that you bring them up at that time, rather than after the fact." More quietly, he adds, just to Del, "I apologize for my outburst and did not mean to upset you or anyone else in the group. It appears that great oaf has a talent for getting under my skin in addition to his penchant for sticking his nose into matters not of his concern."
"You did not upset! I'm not sure what happened." Del looks thoughtful. "Seeing that pale elf scorpion reminded me of a time when I was embraced by a nightmare. I also think that big oaf means well. He's not the enemy."
"I know, but you don't have to be an enemy to be infuriating." He smiles a little at that.
Tyrects, coming back to the group out of the darkness and seeing the woman looking unwell in front of him, asks "Should I carry her? We must be moving."
“Yes, I think that might be a good idea.” says Quiberron.
"No no. I'm okay. I need to walk." Del focuses on her breathing.
"Fair enough, Foxgirl."
Quiberron calls out to Flynn and Roland, “I still don’t know what’s going on between you two, but it is upsetting Del and delaying our return. Every minute may be important in administering an antidote to High Lord Fennix. Please save your quarrel for some other time.”
Flynn's head snaps to the new voice, right handed fingers drumming rapidly against his palm. His eyes are glazed and his breathing is ragged, but he inhales deeply and holds it for just a moment. When it leaves his body, it is much more controlled. "I need to stay for a moment. I'll catch up when I have my emotions under control. Go." He steps to the side, out of the way and turns to face away.
Turning from the Foxgirl to Flynn, Tyrects lowers his voice and waits for the others to depart before saying, "The battle is not here, Master Scar. But if you need to burn off some energy, I am always ready to train."
Flynn grunts an affirmative and trudges off the path into the grass.
Far ahead of the others, Tyrects can only distantly hear them talking in the dark. And for a moment, the loneliness he has felt so often begins to creep back in, burrowing itself uncomfortably — but in a frustratingly familiar fashion — beneath his skin. The sensation is cold but one that couldn’t be warmed by the light of the sun or fire.
Then, a voice — no, a series of voices — whisper and call through the emptiness. “Come home.” They too are familiar but more distantly so. “Brother, come home.”
Tyrects pushes the voices aside for now to return to his friends, growling at the night.
“They speak of torture and soul selling, but they know so little,” a dark voice purrs in Del’s ear as Quiberron natters on and Roland and Flynn argue. “So very little.” Del quickly inhales and looks over to see where voice is coming from. She whimpers. There is laughter. Then the sound fades into the night.
Quiberron bumps into Rallaak, who stopped suddenly when Roland and Flynn did.
“Uhhh... why did we stop? Why are you two glaring at each other? Did someone do something wrong?” Quiberron looks from Roland to Flynn and back uncomfortably.
Del reaches out and tightly grasps Quiberron’s forearm. Staring straight at the back of Terrence's head, she mutters, "Lady, please don't hurt me." She looks like she is about to pass out.
“Del, what’s wrong?” asks Quiberron, ignoring Roland and Flynn’s drama. “Is the argument bothering you?” Quibberon holds Del’s hand to his arm in case she drops it, and creates a minor illusion in the air between her and the two arguing party members. He paints a picture of a fox by a blue stream, surrounded by green leaves. The picture hangs in the air, unmoving, but blocking Del’s view of Roland and Flynn.
Del seems unresponsive for a while, her eyes glazed over. She blinks, seeing the fox, smiles. She looks over at Quiberron Libran, "What happened? I feel unwell." Her grip on his arm relaxes. "What an adorable fox."
In a dangerous political climate, several expeditions are made to the infamous Wilds in hopes of expanding the country, Urbane, and avoiding an all out civil war. But, when the lord in charge of the excursions is almost assassinated, tensions increase and put new pressures on the brave explorers.